Yancy Hastings's face was grim. His hands were clenched tightly as he stood still, staring at the Hampton father and son.
"So, how should we handle it?"
He was acting like a ruffian. He turned, sat on the long bench, crossed his legs, and appeared remarkably relaxed.
The Hampton father and son wished they could be as relaxed, but the soldiers flanking them made it hard for them to even breathe deeply.
What if we anger this man? Wouldn't we be killed right here on the spot?
Damn it! This man gallivants around Capital Town with guns and an army. Isn't he just slapping our faces, telling us he's someone we can't afford to provoke?
It's over. Why are we, the victims, now being interrogated like murderers, hearts pounding in terror?
"But...we are the victims after all. Look, she's still in the operating room and hasn't come out yet."
Although Mr. Hampton knew they couldn't afford to provoke Maxwell Peary, they hadn't been the ones to initiate the conflict this time.
